“But you made your marks on them, boy. My marks, I call ’em.”
“Pick up your sword and shield, Serge,” cried Marcus, excitedly. “They’ll be coming back directly perhaps.”
“Well, yes, it would be wise, boy,” said the old soldier, taking his advice. “Look yonder; that’s the fellow I cut down,” and he pointed with his sword to the man who had been bathing his wound and, after crossing the rivulet, was also in full retreat. “No, he’s had enough of it, and if the others came back it wouldn’t be six to one, but five to two—two well-armed warriors, you and me,” said the old man, proudly, as he made Marcus’ shield clatter loudly as he tapped it with his sword. “You and me, boy,” he repeated. “Tchah! They won’t come on again. Why, back to back, you and me—why, we are ready for a dozen of them if they came. Here, I had my wash, but I must go now and have another while you keep guard over me. Think of it!—While you keep guard over me, boy! No, I won’t call you boy no more, for I have made you a fighting man, and here’s been the proof of it this morning. There’s only one thing wanted to make all this complete. Boy! Tchah! I can’t call you a boy: you are a young Roman warrior.”
“Oh, nonsense, Serge!” cried the boy, flushing.
“Nonsense, eh? Look at you and the way you handled that spear. Why, you are better with your sword, if you have to draw it, as I well know. Do you remember how you nearly did for me?”
“Oh yes, I remember,” replied Marcus.
“Yes, I had to jump that time; and lucky I did, or I shouldn’t have been here for you to fight like this. But, as I was saying, it only wanted one thing, and that was for your father, who has come to his senses at last, to have been here to see, and—”
The old soldier stopped short, his big, massive jaw dropped, and he stood staring as he took off his heavy helmet and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“But I say,” he cried, at last, staring at the boy with the puzzled expression upon his features growing more and more intense, “what are you doing here?”
Marcus’ sun-browned face turned scarlet, and he stood silent, staring in reply, beginning almost to cower—he, the brave, young, growing warrior—before the old servant’s stern eyes, and ready to shiver at the pricking of the conscience that was now hard at work.